


Mystified

by JubileeProductions



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Elsa is learning to be a badass queen, Elsa/Original Character - Freeform, F/M, Frozen (2013) References, kinda violent, lots of magic, love it, self discovery, there are wizards, would advise against children for readings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-21 23:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17651666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JubileeProductions/pseuds/JubileeProductions
Summary: The royal sisters discover an amnesiac at the bottom of a well. They soon find that this man is a bridge to a secret and mystical society that would very much like to know what exactly Elsa is. As for the stranger? He claims to be a wizard who heralds foreboding news he can't quite remember...





	1. Chapter 1

 

****  
  


* * *

**Chapter One**

 

_ The Sorceress’s Storm _

* * *

 

  
  
  


In the gray of a late-oktober afternoon, the first drops of rain end their fleeting lives upon the nose of a lovely farm girl, who lifts her hands to the heavens’ lament and twirls in merry circles. 

It rains from the North Mountain down to the far reaches of the Arendelle Queendom. Over rolling green hills in the south to the churning sea in the north and west. Children, much to the chagrin of their mothers, steal brief, gleeful moments in the showers, dancing and singing and molding mud-pies for unsuspecting victims. 

Far west of the children’s joy, upon a southbound road, state documents shift in Elsa’s lap. She lifts her gaze to see the rainfall that pitter-patters upon the dirt road. There are shouts outside her carriage, which come to a stop soon after. She hears the following conveyances behind her too slow to a halt, as men clad in basil-green uniforms do what they can to shelter supplies from an unexpected downpour. 

A rocking lantern swings to view, revealing the professional countenance of Sergeant Affersson. He briefly perceives the snoring forms of Olaf and Anna seated across from his queen, then addresses Elsa with a bowed head. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, “It’s raining.”

One slender brow assumes gradual ascension. A measure of silence. “Truly?” 

There is no helping her mild derision; she is tired, and the Sergeant’s report is so apparent that she already wants him to go away. 

_ Stop it,  _ she tells herself,  _ everybody is tired. The man is only doing his job.  _

With a short breath, Elsa reigns in her patience, “Does our guide believe it might get worse, Sergeant?”

Affersson nods with trained promptness. “He suggests we find shelter half a league down-road, at a traveler’s inn called The Bee’s Barb.”

“Hospitable,” is Elsa’s sardonic muse, mostly to herself. “Does the inn have some renown?”

“Never heard of it in my life, Your Majesty. Must not get good business.”

Elsa contemplates for a length of time. The rain’s tap-dance atop the royal coach soon becomes a steady sea of taps. Men bearing the Golden Crocus visibly shiver out in the morbid weather. Strange that darkness had come so swiftly. Was it not but late afternoon? 

“I will speak with him.” Elsa gathers her skirts of the fine attire she had worn for breakfast at the Sigland’s Barony, one of two dozen under her rule. 

The Sergeant does not protest. He too is weary of the day. The rain had been a surprise to everybody, and not at all welcome for their travel. He disappears shortly, returning with her shroud given to him by one of her ladies-in-waiting. She accepts it out of queenly civility (in a shorter time she could have crafted her own weather-proof garb), and slips from the carriage by Afferson’s proffered hand. Four seconds ago, she had been wearing elegant heels. Now, within the confines of her skirts, they transmute to practical boots. 

_ Virgin Mary, it is dark!  _ Even with the lanterns, she can see no more than five to six feet ahead of them. It is almost unnatural. In fact, it rather is. 

The travel guide, Odd, stands at the nose of the company. He leans over an impromptu table—some empty supply crates—where two poor guards shelter the paper by holding out the wings of their cloaks. Elsa clutches the front of her shroud to hold it around her as she joins Odd, who bows and gestures at the lantern-lit map. 

“Crazy weather!” He shouts over the wind’s howls. “Came from nowhere! Ain’t seen nuthin’ like it in my fifty-eight years of life, Majesty!” 

“Came from nowhere you said?” Elsa too raises her voice over the storm. She has to squint to see him; the wind and rain ruthlessly pelts her porcelain face, even with her hood pulled overhead. 

“Aye!” Odd nods, “Aye it did. A gray day it was, bu’ no sign of the makin’s of storm! No front, no thunder clouds, no herald winds, even!”

“Why is it so dark?” 

“Looks like night, don’t it?” Despite the almost frightening circumstances, Odd lets out an incredulous laugh. “My only guess is the clouds, Majesty. But I ain’t ever heard o’ clouds dense enough to bring early nightfall!” 

The queen rolls the traveler’s words about in her mind. “And what of the inn? It’s big enough to house our whole company?” 

“No’ room-wise, Majesty! But Becky and Benson would let yer men camp themselves in the stables!”

“Their fees?” 

“10 kroner a night! Twenty for every horse!” 

Elsa stares at Odd, who shrugs. An unbecoming to gesture before royalty, but the queen could care less. “Roadside inns don’t get much business, Majesty. The Bee’s Barb is the only one for leagues.” 

Swift calculations are made from her apt memory. Fifteen guards, four horse boys, four ladies-in-waiting, six servants, and six horses, two for every carriage, one for every supply wagon. Yes, she can certainly afford her intentions.  _ I wonder how much a snowman would cost.  _ She turns to the Affersson. “Sergeant! Inform the company that we will make for shelter! They will not need to worry about payment!” 

The Sergeant nods and turns to a horse boy, who stands at frigid attention. “Did you catch that?” 

The boy dashes off to relay the word of their queen. Elsa watches him go, when a sudden idea strikes her. She turns her gaze skyward, or where the sky would have been, studying the black mass that is the storm. 

With a gathering of will, Elsa contains her cerulean magic within a phosphorescent snowball and casts it spiraling towards the clouds, where she watches it explode in a dazzle of winter and light. She has changed the weather before. Perhaps… 

The wind comes harder, if possible, and rips through the company like avenging spirits. Horses nicker and neigh, kicking their legs and cantering to and fro as horse boys and guards alike skip clear and try to snatch their reigns. A chill rushes up Elsa’s spine, an eerie malevolence that crawls and seeps into her. 

_ This is no natural storm.  _

The storm is vengeful, and only a fraction less so within the coach. Early in the morning, when the company had set off from the Sigland township, Elsa had the glass of her window removed (it is the old, ceremonial coach that her parents had used for travel, with no latches or levers to open the window herself) so she would feel the morning air. But now invasive rain spatters in, wetting her documents. Once settled, Elsa taps the window sill with a forefinger, watching as a thin sheet of ice rises as makeshift glass. 

“I… I… I…” Olaf seems to be enraptured, eyes fixated on the storm outside. 

“Olaf?” Concern etches in Elsa's voice. 

“I…  _ love it _ !” The snowman laughs kicking his feet and swinging his arms in boyful praise. “It’s like impatient snow!” 

Laughter from the queen, and she stoops to kiss his carrot nose. The storm may be strange and strong, but little Olaf could lift anybody’s spirits, no matter the circumstance.    
  
  


**o 0 o**

  
  


The storm does not relent. 

The Bee’s Barb is an inviting beacon to any traveler caught in the torrents and terrors of the deluge. It’s a squat place, quaint, with a fair merry glow that pulses beyond its windows. The promise of food and warmth. 

The street is empty, muddy, and riddled with puddles. So when the wizard emerges from nothing and falls face-first into it, there’s a long, morbid groan and a short laugh. 

_ Rain. It had to be rain.  _

The wizard tries to stand up, but his cheeks bulge when the aftermath of Leaping catches up. Two heaves before his stomach empties on the road. 

“That,” he spits, “I’m never doing that again.” 

He stands on wobbly legs, long coat trailing in the mud. The inn sits just ahead, welcoming and cheery. Somebody is playing the nyckelharpa from within, its distant notes dampened by the storm. The wizard grunts.  _ Huh. Convenient.  _

But he doesn’t approach yet; isn’t he forgetting something? It’s important— _ very  _ important. What is… oh!    
  
“Staff, staff staff.” The wizard stumbles about, splashing in the puddles like a drunkard. That Leap really has left him witless. “Staff. Come on!” 

He reaches out and from the rain-pelted ground a staff of birch, by an unseen force, lurches up and slaps into his palm. Impressive to the unaware, reflexive to the wizard. He thumps the staff into the ground, the reassuring vibrations in his hand eliciting a little grin. “We have a lot of work to do, buddy.” 

He’s not talking to the staff—which would have been ridiculous, he definitely does  _ not  _ do that, ever—but to the Egyptian Mau that huddles under his jacket. The cat blinks up at her wizard with amber eyes and retreats further from the unwanted rain. 

Three brisk knocks. Nothing. The nyckelharpa continues, the wizard can hear a ballad chanted by a round of hearty voices. 

The wizard shuffles uneasily, glancing over his shoulder and into the soaking darkness. He’s Leapt far, yes. But his pursuer is stronger than he is, with knowledge of old magics that run deeper than his abilities. Caution is mandatory. 

He knocks harder. The music doesn’t stop, but a hoarse voice shouts something he can’t make out. Taking it as an admittance, he pushes the door open and enters.  

Inside, it’s like he steps into an alternate world. The interior is a clash of modern and old Norse designs, patterned beams standing in no apparent order with round tables placed at random to his left and right. A fiery bed of coals stretch down the center of the room, flanking which sit long tables where perhaps half a dozen men engage in raucous banter. There's a bar at the far side, behind which a burly-armed woman cleans a large mug. 

The singing group take no notice of the newcomer, which is fine by him. Dripping and quaking from the clinging cold, the wizard takes squelching steps down the room and places both hands atop the counter.

“Hi.” 

The bartender takes her meticulous time cleaning the mug, his smile doesn't drop.

“Lønn?” She says without looking. 

“Lonn, yes. Lonn…” the wizard drums his fingers, “… what’s that?” 

An irritated grunt. She points to a sign hanging above the counter:  _ Ingen lønn, ingen tjeneste _

_ Jesus, how far north have I come?  _

If he’s indeed Leapt further north than he intended—and he doesn’t know what exactly he intended—then he should consider himself lucky that he didn’t fall into the sea. That would have been… well, unfortunate to say the least. 

The wizard raised both hands apologetically. “Sorry. I don’t understand.”

He had left in a panic, with just enough time to snatch his staff, Isis, and the object his pursuers desired. An object that lies in his pockets now as the wizard scratches his chin and churns his mind for what move to take next. 

Swedish, perhaps? He knows very little. “Talar du engelska?”

The bartender, whose scowl begins to split her ruddy face, shook her head. 

“Talar du engelska?” The wizard asks over his shoulder at the group of laughing men. 

All of them stop at once like a singular organism, staring at the stranger like he’s somehow affronted them. “Norsk,” one of them drawls, and the wizard runs long fingers though sopping sandy curls.  _ Boy, oh boy. I’ve Leapt to Norway. Bloody Norway.  _

This, on many levels, is not good. He doesn’t know the language. Time is too short to craft a proper Alltongue Charm. He already is pushing his chances by stopping here, but the storm is too much. His powers are significantly weakened under running water, even with his staff and familiar.

A familiar who now has stuck her head from the confines of his heavy jacket and is blinking owlishly about. The wizard scratches Isis’s head. “Oh, you wake now that there’s food.”

“Mew.”

“I could’ve used your help around ten minutes ago.”

“Mew.”

“Stop being cute. You have a lot to answer for.”

Their chat is cut short by meaty fingers snapping under the wizard’s nose. The scowl is more apparent now on the bartender’s face. Her hand finds his shoulder, grip vice-like, and the wizard stiffens. 

“She wants you to pay, friend,” a smiling blonde man in suspenders takes the seat next to him. “She doesn’t get much business up here. Charges for the fire, same as food and lodging.” 

“An English speaker so far north?” The wizard fishes under his coat for his pouch of coins. 

Shaking his head, he taps a dangling shard of bark about his neck, an Old Irish rune carved into its face. A professionally-crafted Alltongue Charm, something far better made than the one the wizard had left behind

“North Branch,” the other wizard says, “Fancy seeing London Branch so far from home. What brings you to Arendelle, friend?” 

The chances of finding another wizard by coincidence is near astronomical, and the wizard is unsure whether to be suspicious or relieved. The naive boy apprentice is long gone, and of course, his mission goes against every law set by the Society of Mystics. 

When his comrades discover what he’s done, which will be within the hour, he would be deemed an Unforgivable, and sentenced to life within the undersea prison. But they won’t understand, and he has no time to explain.

“Who says I’m from London Branch?”

The stranger points, “Says the cat. You brits do love your domestic familiars.”

The wizard retrieves four coins from the pouch, but before he slips them out, he thumbs them. “Local currency?” 

“Krone,” says his ‘new friend’, whose eyes never leave the wizard. A cigar is lit. “You smoke?” 

“I’ve cut back.” 

“Oh?"

In honesty, the wizard doesn’t feel comfortable accepting anything from the stranger, even if he’s a fellow wizard. Has the notice of what he’s done reached Scandinavia already? The concern festers in his mind as the coins he thumbs morph to four kroner of 20. The bartender’s eyes widen briefly as they’re sent clattering on her counter, swiping them into her apron. Her scowl is promptly placed with a pleasant grin, showing teeth yellowed by smoke. 

_ Perhaps I  _ should _ cut back. Don’t want chompers like that. _

“Got me,” the wizard spares the stranger a brief smirk, “As British as they come. Took the Aerotransit from Wiltshire. Famished from the trip.” 

The bartender beats her massive fists against a loose door that must lead to the kitchen, shouting in norsk. The Inn’s chef barks back just as fervently. 

“The Aerotransit?” The stranger’s eyes still scrutinize, “Curious.” 

“Curious how?” The wizard waves off offered brandy. Goodness, the bartender treats him like a king, now! “Could you possibly tell her I’d like some tea?” 

“Of course. My friend here prefers tea, Becky.” His hand slaps the wizard’s back amiably, which stiffens his spine in discomfort. Isis scampers from her shelter within his coat and stretches atop the counter, yawning wide and long. 

“Sorry friend,” the stranger shrugs apologetically, “Becky don’t serve tea. Got some ales, some brandies, coffee…” 

“Oh, coffee. Coffee, please.” 

“Becky, this good man would like some coffee!” He claps the wizard’s back again. 

“I’d appreciate it, friend, if you stopped that.”

“Why, does it make you uncomfortable?” The stranger suddenly moves closer, hissing under-breath, “Curious that you arrive by Aerotransit when it’s been banned in Scandinavian skies three months prior,” a terse smile, “friend.”

_ Oh what luck. Ohh what splendid luck. Think quick you idiot.  _

Mirthless chuckles. The wizard leans over and massages his brow, head shaking. “Never been the best fibber.” 

“Clearly.” 

“Not been here, what, ten minutes and I run into a ‘fellow man’. What are the chances of that?” 

Becky gives the two an odd look as she places a steaming mug of black coffee in front of the wizard. 

“Higher now, for the past few months. “Four of us are now assigned to Arendelle.” 

“So you’re an Officer.”  _ Not good. _

All the stranger offers is a grin. It’s no longer friendly. “You Leapt here, no?"

No answer. 

“Yes, you’ve Leapt. Is this your staff?” He reaches for it, “May I?” 

“Handling a man’s staff before courtship?” the wizard’s pulls it closer, “I’m flustered.” 

“You’ve got a mouth.” 

“How else would I drink this fine coffee?”

The stranger laughs, holding out a hand, “Magnus Holt."

Hands aren’t shaken. “What do you want, Magnus Holt?” 

“To be indulged, ‘fellow man’,” he gestures to the staff again, “Don’t you think those are a bit…”

“Overkill?” 

“Old-fashioned.” Magnus says, “Redundant?”

“Hey...” the wizard sounds sincerely offended, and he cradles his staff as if protecting a babe. He isn’t too aware of what magical tools are in fashion and what are not. His former master had favored the old ways, disgruntled against progress, and a protester when the Aerotransit, a system of trains ingeniously enchanted to travel above the clouds, was first put into production.

Magnus accepts an ale from Becky, flipping a coin she catches without looking. “So, strange fellow man. Let me evaluate the basics. A fellow man Leaps all the way from—what was it—Wintshire? He Leaps from Wintshire to Norway, a feat that requires copious amounts of energy, more than one little ‘fellow man’ could produce, and not five minutes before he arrives…” he takes a swig of the ale, “Mmh, good draft Becky. Not five minutes before you arrive through that door,” Magnus jabs a finger at it, “a freak storm hits.”

_ Freak storm? _ “Freak storm?” The wizard’s mind reels.  _ She can’t be here. She can’t be. Not already.  _

Magnus Holt studies the wizard’s face, then he leans back, taking a contemplative puff of his cigar. “The day looked like it might rain, but no hints of a storm. Our weather workers were shocked, said nothing like this was to be expected for another fortnight. We’ve been keeping tabs on the queen, considering what she is, but…” 

“What she is?” The wizard avoids Magnus’s searching eyes. To meet them would solicit a soulgaze, something that would vastly expand his growing list of problems. “Queen’s a mystic?”

Magnus taps ash from the end of his cigar. “We have no idea. But that’s not what I’m getting at here, friend.”

“From your tone, I wouldn’t think you considered me a friend.”

“I don’t know,” the Officer eyes drop to the staff the wizard still grasps, “You concern me. My business is… delicate, and here comes you, an anomaly appearing in a spontaneous storm.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

Isis senses her wizard’s tension, her lantern orbs turning to the pair of them from where she was previously sniffing an abandoned meal. 

“Would you like to know what I think?” 

“Is that rhetorical?” 

“You,” with an air of finality, Magnus sets the mug of ale down on the counter, “look like a man on the run. Now,” he doesn’t smile this time, “if I trace your Leap, will it lead me to, um,  Winchester, or will it lead me to London Office?” 

Both of them sit very still. The nyckelharpa leans into a new tune, something slower and sad. The young woman who plays it sways side to side, her eyes closed and paying no heed to the lewd looks she receives from her audience. Becky seems to notice the tension building, her hand straying for a blunderbuss strapped to the underside of the counter. 

The wizard considers his options. There aren’t many, and none of them are particularly good. Magnus Holt doesn’t seem like a bad man, perhaps he is even a good man. All the more reason to keep him as far away from what he’s doing as possible. The Officer would attempt to stop him. Considering his obvious intellect, he most likely could. 

Facts in his favor. This is a public environment, which means Magnus can’t do anything to him yet. Magnus still doesn’t have a clear picture as to why he’s come so far. Surely, if he were to know, he’d be incinerated where he sat.

Options… options… options. 

Option. Singular. 

The wizard takes one long drink of his coffee.  _ Well, what else’re you good at? _

Magnus sees what he’s doing just as he does it, and covers is face with his forearm, “Don’t-!”

“ _ Solas _ !” The wizard raises his staff and from its tip a flash of white radiance blinds all who see. He dives from his chair, Isis in hot pursuit as he makes a dash for the door. There are panicked shouts and a crash behind. The previously loud and singing men were toppling over one another. A blunderbuss barks from behind the counter, the back of a chair splintering right by the wizard’s elbow as he finds the door. 

“Are you crazy?” Bellows Magnus, who’s striding for the retreating wizard, “Do you realize what you’ve done?!” 

_ Yeah, yeah. I’m trying to save all of humanity at the moment. Like a bloody idiot.  _

The door is flung open, and the wizard plunges into the storm. 

“Tilda, stay here,” Magnus breezes by his apprentice who had been playing the nyckelharpa, “If the queen arrives,” he hisses, “don’t make a move. Wait for me.” He glances about at the howling men, then to the bartender with the smoking gun, “And clean up this mess.”

His apprentice nods, a fire in her eyes. She clutches her instrument, a pillar of calm amongst the screaming men and their burning eyes that had lecherously leered at her moments before, watching as her master chases after the runaway wizard. 

_ That idiot is going to ruin everything _ , is her boiling thought as she sets about altering memories and healing eyes. 

The wizard goes for the forest behind The Bee’s Barb. Strange magics dwell about trees, and he thinks perhaps he can draw from them. Even under rainfall that would be of some use. A spell whizzes by him and strikes the ground in a streak of green light, and he knows that Magnus is after him. 

“Isis!” He stops just long enough to snatch his familiar from the ground, “Take it! Take it away!”

Another spell splinters a tree as he passes it. Are those lethal?! 

Isis’s head dips behind the lapels of his jacket, and when she withdraws something metallic glints between her teeth. The wizard never wishes to see that thing again, one that has brought his life onto steady decay.

He holds Isis close in a tight hug for an instant, and prays to Whoever might be listening that his dear friend would be safe. “Sorry,” he whispers, and tosses her to the side. The cat lands on all fours, darting off into the shadows. 

Not five more frantic steps are taken when an invisible force slams into the wizards back. The world wheels about and his body rattles when a pain erupts throughout his body. Two blinks later, he's laying at the base of a tree. 

“I don’t want to hurt you!” Magnus shouts over the storm, “I just want answers! Things aren’t looking good for you right now!” 

“That's very apparent, yes,” the wizard wheezes under-breath. 

“I believe I've never met your acquaintance!” Judging buy the sound, Magnus isn't terribly far. He knows the Officer wants to follow his voice. “Let’s start with your name! I told you mine, what's yours?” 

“That’d be the polite thing, wouldn’t it?” The wizard feels his side.  _ Ribs still in tact. _

Magnus’ head whipped about, droplets of rainwater flying from his swinging hair as he attempted to gage from where the voice came. “Indeed, friend!”

“Listen to me carefully, Magnus Holt!” The wizard takes halting steps between the trees, leaning against another and grimacing. “Everything you think you know, question it! Everyone you think you trust, question  _ them _ !” 

“The cold’s getting to you,” Magnus scowls up at the lament. Without it he’d be able to conjure an adequate glowsphere, “Come back to where it’s warm! My apprentice is taking care of the mess! You can talk to me there!” 

“I’m sorry, Holt! You seem like a good man!” Pain flashes up the wizard’s side. Grunting, he lifts his shirt. The wetness he feels there is warmer, thicker.  _ Contingency after contingency.  _

Magnus closes in on the wizard’s voice, wand brandished. Screams. Feral screams of an acute agony that propels the officer further and faster.  _ What is he doing?  _

Panting heavily, the wizard lifts his hand from the wound he cauterized with a simple fire spell. Healing spells are taxing and require incredible doses of skill and patience, both of which he lacks at this moment. But the pain leeches his consciousness. The wizard pushes from one tree to the next, leaning on his staff as he retreats further into the forest. 

It’s all too much. He sees red, his vision vignettes. Stumbling and tripping over a protruding root, the wizard collapses at the foot of a great pine. There he lies, trying to steady his breathing and push on. To get away. 

“There you are.” 

A terrible dread clamps his chest.

The sorceress who stands over him is beautiful, in a way that is twisted and wicked. The rain and wind bends around her so that she's perfectly dry and comfortable, her black main of hair tumbling over face and shoulders. Dark lips curl into a beguiling smirk, showing pearlescent teeth as she dips into a crouch before the felled wizard. 

“Do you like my storm?”

Ragged breathing. A cough. “Deeply.” 

“You're hurt.” She moves his jacket aside to examine the scorch mark where the gash had been. The skin there has become a red and gnarled scar in the shape of a spread hand.

“Kinda.” 

The sorceress’s pale blue orbs search the wizard’s face for a moment, and her fingers raise to trace his stubbled jaw. He flinches back, grimacing. 

“I take it the book is gone?” 

Another cough. “Maybe.”

“You amuse me, Fallow.” 

“Aw shucks.” 

“Where’d you go, friend?” Magnus Holt's calls could be heard in the distance, over the sound of rumbles and rainfall, “I thought we were gaining some headway!” 

The sorceress stands, facing from where the officer's voice came. “Who is that?” 

“Du… dunno.” 

“Making friends already, are we?” She licks her lips anxiously, shifting to one foot to the other as her bright eyes dart about. 

“He doesn't… have-,”

“Shhhhh, sh, sh,” crouching down again, the sorceress presses a forefinger to his lips, “Mommy's thinking.” 

The wizard holds his breath against her finger, wizened to what she is capable of with just a touch. In the close distance, a branch snaps, followed by a swear. Magnus was close, much too close. 

“So,” the sorceress whispers to the wizard, “Which is it?” she stands, facing from where the sound of Magnus's approach came from, “Your new friend, or that cat?”

By answer, the wizard suddenly lunges up. “ _ Ignotia!” _ He strikes her shoulder, and where the staff meets her dress white flames burst and sputter. Through blind agony and fear, the wizard flees again. 

A wrathful shriek chases him. The hairs on his neck stand upright as the air around him crackles and pops with a gathering of horrifying forces. There’s a small clearing ahead where a decaying well slouches. Her view of him is open. 

_ Okay. _

When the sorceress hurls her spear of congealing lightning at the wizard, he spins and holds his staff before him. All of his energy is poured into a single, coalesced wall of will. One that holds back the torrents of crackling forces that writhe against his barrier. 

For a moment, he feels that he might have succeeded. 

A crack snakes down the haft of the wizard’s staff. More join it, and in his hands the wizard’s staff splits in two, giving way to the bolt of lightning that strikes him and throws his smoking form back. 

An unthinkable agony tears through him, and momentarily strips him of all thought and sense as he’s airborne

He vaguely aware that he will die, and as he closes his hazel eyes a goofy smile finds him. Dirty little hands, and the sun-kissed face of the girl he calls daughter. What will she think of him now? Would she even recognize him? Does she know that all that he’s done, all this futile rebellion is for her? He will never see her again, he realizes. His beautiful little girl, who will learn soon enough of what he’s become. 

_ I had no choice, baby. I wish I could tell you that.  _

As the mouth of the well rises to greet the wizard, a spike of mad humor tempts a wry grin. 

_ The fate of the world rests on my cat. _

 

**o 0 o**

 

**_JubileePretentiousName Presents…_ **

**_An unabridged production_ **

 

~~~ Mystified ~~~

 

**_Written by Jubilee, Edited and Reviewed by kramer53_ **

  
  


* * *

  
  


**Magics Index**

  
  
  
  


**Aerotransit -** A system of trains that travel over the clouds, secret to those outside the Society of Mystics. 

  
  


**Alltongue Charm -** A tricky mystical object that gives the wearer the ability to understand and speak every spoken language. Take the bark from a yew tree, carve into its face the celtic rune for mouth, and dip it in a stream unbesmirched by wicked things. It’s quite the handy tool for travel, and every roaming mystic tries to keep one with them at all times. 

  
  


**Ignotia -** A violent spell that summons white-hot flames. It’s a clever combination of quasi-latin and Greek roots, where magic runs deep. 

  
  


**Soulgaze -** Beware the eyes of a wizard. Should he desire, he will discover your deepest secrets and greatest fears. 

  
  


**Solas -** A spell commonly used to construct glowspheres. It is the summoning and bending of light, and if called upon with great power behind it, is capable of blinding the fool who doesn’t look away.

  
  


**Wizard’s Staff -** A channel of focus for a wizard, wielded mainly by those who have trouble containing their destructive capabilities. It’s an old-fashioned piece of work; mystics nowadays prefer wands and rings. 

  
  
  



	2. Imperious Isis and Linguistic Recollections

 

  
  


_ Poke. Poke, poke.  _ “Anna.”

Through her sleep, the princess lightly bats at Elsa's gentle prodding. 

“Annaaaaa,” the queen softly intones, “We’re stopping.” 

“Mnnnh, m'we're… stomphing…” eyelids flutter, a bleary smile graces, but she's still deep under. 

Olaf has already left the carriage, and there just outside the door he stretches his back and touches his snowball toes. Snowmen get sore? 

Outside, it’s a dewy and young night. The sun has just fallen to sleep, and the storm had passed as swiftly as it came, as though banished by God Himself. Curious. Strange and curious. That storm had bested Elsa’s winter, something she never thought was possible. 

“Anna,” Elsa shakes her sister again, making the princess's head bob, “You've napped for hours.” 

There is a long satisfactory exhale, and Anna blinks awake. She sits upright, “We've stopped?” 

“Yes. We're staying at The Bee’s Barb.” 

“Mmmmhhh,” fingertips brush the carriage ceiling as Anna stretches, “It smells like rain.” 

Elsa privately marvels at her sister's once comatose state. Anna is left thoroughly unaware of the storm that had buffeted and jostled the carriage. She wonders as they leave the coach if she would someday manage such deep slumber. 

Lanterns akin to bobbing will-o'-the-wisps bustle about outside their coach. It’s as dark now as it was while the storm was upon them, and the first stars wink jovially in the midnight-blue of sky. Elsa parts from the carriage, followed by Anna, who's greeted by her ladies-in-waiting. They go about fixing her hair and unruffling her clothes as their princess begins dramatizing a dream. 

“Glad to have that wretched weather behind us, Your Majesty,” one of Elsa’s own ladies-in-waiting, Helga, brings her queen a towel so she can further dry her platinum-blonde hair, “Which way do you think it's headed? My dear beloved is traveling to Corona. I hate the thought of him caught up in that deluge.” 

“Which way?” Scoffs Frigga, a round lady approaching her fifties. She helps Elsa out of her shroud, which is still heavy from the sopping rainwater. “Saw it dissolve into nothing with my very own eyes! Witchcraft, I tell you.” 

Elsa thinks of how the storm overcame her own magic. She doesn't completely disagree. Helga, on the other hand...

“You're being superstitious, Frigga,” Helga examines Elsa's face, “The makeup will have to go for now, Your Majesty.” 

“It’s all smudged?” 

“It’s all smudged?!” Frigga guffaws, “You look like a thespian jester!” 

An amused Elsa accepts another cloth to wipe clean her face. Olaf has strode ahead to chat enthusiastically with a horse boy, who leads two clydesdales to the waiting stables. There’s a distant ‘ _ bang bang bang!’  _ as Sergeant Affersson beats his gloves knuckles against The Bee's Barb's front door. 

“Have you the treasury box?” Elsa asks Helga. 

“Treasury box?” Helga takes the cloth back and slings the rain shroud over her own shoulder, “Whyever would we need the treasury box?”

“Oh bless her!” Frigga suddenly gushes and takes Elsa’s arm, “She thinks we'll need to pay!” 

The two erupt into a fit of high-octave chortles. Elsa stares, uncomprehending. 

“Elsa, dear,” Frigga reels in her glee, “You're the  _ queen _ . They should be thanking you that you choose to  _ stay _ in their dingy little-,” 

“ _ I,”  _ Elsa interjects pointedly, “think it’s a nice place. And we couldn’t ask the innkeep to house us without pay.” 

“Of course we can.” Helga makes for the servant's coach, “Benefits of royalty, my dear queen!” 

An owl's call is heard, which turns Elsa's head to a forest bordering the road. It gapes at her, dark and beckoning, as though it dares her to venture amongst its pillars of trees and lose herself in the thickets. 

A darting shadow draws Elsa’s attention, eyeshine from some small and unseen beast gleaming at her. A wolf? No, too small. Perhaps a fox. She inches closer, careful not to startle the creature, and her heart quickens when she realizes what she sees is not eyeshine at all, but a pair of luminescent amber eyes. 

Elsa blinks. They’re gone, and she wonders if she had imagined them. It  _ has _ been a long day...

“Olaf!” 

Anna’s half-amused outcry makes the queen jump. Heart adrum, Elsa clutches her chest and spins about. “Anna! Don’t  _ do  _ that!” 

“Do what?” Anna is busy tugging a fallen branch from where Olaf’s carrot nose should have been, “Olaf is the one shoving strange things in his face.” 

“It’s my belated third birthday!” the indignant snowman declares, “I’m do for a makeover.”

“Olaf…” Elsa sighs in gentle reprimand as she stoops to take up the discarded carrot, “We love your carrot n-... third birthday?” 

“That’s right.” Olaf goofily giggles at his mother’s silliness, “I’m three months old two days ago.”

Elsa and Anna share a look, and at once they both crouch down to eye-level with the snowman.

“Olaf,” Her voice soft and almost sing-song, Anna takes the carrot from her sister and pushes nose back into face, “That’s not how birthdays work.” 

“They’re annual,” Elsa helps Olaf adjust his nose, “Not monthly.” 

The snowman looks from Anna to Elsa, and then vice versa. “I have to wait a whole  _ year? _ ” 

“Unfortunately,” Anna grumbles under her breath. She had long ago the very same misgivings for her own birthday, Elsa recalls.

“When your birthday comes, the entire kingdom will celebrate it,” Elsa promises. Ahead, she can see the inn’s door open, a shaft of firelight spanning over the path that leads to the porch. “I’m going to make it snow just for you. And there will be a parade.” 

Olaf Who Likes Warm Hugs wore a smile that was so wide, so outrageous and contagious that the sisters could neither resist its charm nor did they want to. 

The landlady and innkeep of The Bee’s Barb greeted the nobles and their subjects with grand vigor, introducing herself as Becky Barb. She is a burly gorilla of a woman, with a toothy grin of yellowing tombstones and hands that can likely crush melons. She apparently finds the royal sisters’ arrival to be a splendid marketing opportunity, and she immediately sets about arranging mugs of draft for her abundance of shivering customers. 

The whole company manages to fit themselves in the lounge, though a few guards stand aside occupied chairs and lean against tables. Lodging arrangements are made with a 50% discount, for the blessed privilege of their majesties gracing The Barb, so the innkeep had put it. 

“Benni!” She beats her meaty fists against a door that must lead to the kitchens, “Git yer grubby behind out here an’ greet our royal guests!” 

There’s a deep, prolonged moan. The entire floor positively  _ shakes  _ with heavy footsteps as something gargantuan approaches the door. When the door swings open to reveal who stands beyond it, Elsa wonders how the giant had fit through the threshold to begin with. 

He has to stoop to peer through the doorway, revealing a face that boasts a jutting underbite, from which protrudes a large tooth. The humongous man bashfully waves with both hands, twice as large as his sister’s. 

An impressed Anna waves back. 

Tables are moved from the bed of coals spanning down the middle of the lounge so that guards could lay their heavy and sopping uniforms out to dry. Heavy quilt blankets are passed, and Elsa politely refuses one; she is already almost dry and unbothered by the cold. Though she does choose a spot close to the warmth, and gratefully accepts steaming coffee from the ecstatic innkeep. Privately, she would have preferred tea.  

Before an hour passes, yawns are rolling from mouths. A few horse boys are already asleep on the floor, and even the most resilient fight the heaviness in their eyes. One girl who Becky had said was her scullion, Tilda, had begun a soft tune on her nyckelharpa. Unlike her audience, she stares with a quiet focus into the burning coals, and Elsa distantly wonders on what could be on the girl’s mind. She is occasionally glancing at the front door, as though she expects it to suddenly come crashing down.

Had the storm scared Tilda as much as it did her? Or is she expecting somebody? 

Lodging arrangements are made. Elsa talks directly with the innkeep, making it clear that none of her men is staying out in the poorly-conditioned barn. They will stay in the inn where it’s warm, even camp in the lounge if need be. When Becky betrays traces of indignation, Elsa adds, “Miss Barb, if it makes you more comfortable, I could construct a giant igloo just outside of your property.” 

The innkeep considers this. She doesn't know what an igloo is, but it sounds like a potential loss of revenue. At length, she concedes with a bow. “The lounge it is, Majesty.” 

Tilda finishes a number and when she stands to leave, there are cries for an encore. Claps, cheers, and whistles accompany her smiling return to her spot, and this last song is soft and seizes attention at once. This time she sings over strings.

 

_ Idle on the hill _

_ Rest upon a heath _

_ Lie upon a summit _

_ Its stones an ancient wreath _

 

_ Barley in the field _

_ Honey in the comb _

_ All is warmth and comfort _

_ All is hearth and home _

 

_ Lay down thy weary head _

_ Let others lift thy load _

_ Resume another day _

_ Thy journey on the Road _

 

All is still and quiet when Tilda finishes. The strings carry on a single note that keeps her audience captive, and it’s when the nyckelharpa falls silent that Elsa hears it. 

_ Skrit skrit skrit.  _

A faint scratching. Is it rodents in the walls? Olaf notices it too when the sound returns, his head lifting from futile attempts of drinking milk. “Who is scratching their claws against wood?” He loudly asks. 

When Tilda spots the snowman, she nearly falls back into Sergeant Affersson. “ _ What on God’s good earth is-,”  _

Many things happen at once. 

First, in response to Tilda’s shock, Olaf raises both his arms as though a crossbow is aimed at him. He has forgotten about the mug of warm milk he clutches in one hand, the contents of the mug splashing into the innkeep’s face. As the innkeep roars, the guard who had thought to check the door for the scratching jerks and flings it open, and in charges a gray blur. 

This gray blur tears through the crowded lounge. Guards, servants, and horse boys lunge aside, falling over one another in their efforts to avoid the creature. A dosing Sergeant Affersson yells and falls off his stool as the thing leaps into his lap, then dashes across the length of the counter. Mugs, plates, bowls, and spoons clatter to the floor as the blur streaks with an appalling speed. 

One guard flings his uniform coat over the creature. “I got it!” He cries. He is wrong. The innkeep is still shrieking, scrubbing furiously at her face and cursing the ‘damned snowman’s slippery twigs’. Anna is offended by this, and demands an apology, which Elsa hardly thinks necessary given their frenzied predicament. 

A game of catch ensues. Boys and large military men barrel after the little beast that zooms to and fro between legs, under chairs, and over tables, toppling every piece of kitchenware in its destructive path. Tilda is still pointing at Olaf, utterly speechless of a snowman who walks and talks, and she lifts her instrument as though she is fending off a demon. 

An abrupt chill slices through the chaos, and many more things happen at once. Two snowballs slap Anna and the innkeep in the side of their heads, effectively halting their bickering. Every living thing in the lounge pulls back from Elsa, for the cold that wafts from her is near unbearable. The creature is on the counter again in rabid retreat. But before it reaches the counter’s edge, Elsa points with one slender finger. 

There’s an aggrieved yowl; it’s been trapped in an elaborate cage of ice. 

“It’s a  _ cat _ ?” A nameless guard squints. 

“It’s a cat!”

“What was it doin’ outside?” 

“It’s a stray, you dolt.” 

As murmurs drift about the company, both Elsa and Anna lean over the cage to gain a better look. Indeed it is a cat. A wet, frazzled, rabid-looking cat that paces irritably about in its prison. When it stops to glare murderously at Elsa, she recognises those burning eyes of amber. 

“You were in the woods,” she mutters, touching the cage. 

The arch in the cat’s back recedes. Better to endure imprisonment with dignity, it must’ve supposed, for it sits on its haunches with regal posture and grooms the back of its paw. 

“Isis...” Anna reads from its collar, “Hello, Isis.” 

The cat pauses only to stare blankly. Then it resumes its grooming. 

A curious thing to find an owned cat so far from society. The closest speck of civilization, by her own knowledge and Odd’s, is a farming village called Mazpils. Sigland is a day’s travel north, but collared cats are often the property of wealthy folk. While Baron Sigir and his wife Henna are well off, they hate cats. How had that discussion come about… oh yes, they had mistaken Olaf as a royal pet. Anna was outraged.

“Where did you come from, Isis?” Elsa wonders aloud. 

“Are you hungry, girl?” Anna leans closer, tracing the fanciful designs of the bird cage, “I can get you fish. Miss Barb! Do you have fish?” 

The innkeep had just finished brushing the residue of Elsa’s attack from her course brown hair. She makes a begrudging noise, “Aye.” 

The lounge had settled. Many eyes are on Isis and the cage their queen had conjured, but some are lifting tables and moving them aside to make room for bedrolls. Tilda is sitting in a chair, still staring at Olaf, albeit calmer. Her instrument rests in her lap now as she listens, completely enthralled, to the origin story of Olaf Who Likes Warm Hugs. Anna retires for the night, hugging Elsa. 

Sergeant Affersson is rubbing his tired eyes, but immediately responds to Elsa’s summons. He reports to her, wholly professional even outside of uniform. The image of formality isn’t even shattered by his wooly socks, boots set aside to dry. “Yes, Your Majesty?” 

“My servants have retired,” she gestures towards the open door that leads to the second floor, “And I know that nobody has worked harder today than you. But I must request that you accompany me for some business. It won’t take long.” 

He bows his head without hesitation, without even a hint of despondency. And so as men begin their sleep all around them, Elsa and the sergeant sit at a table and work by lantern light. Affersson passes his queen unopened documents, through which she skims with but half a mind. Most of it is trade route sums: which goes to where and why. Her queenship is fresh, and the trade of Arendelle still requires study. 

By the flickering lantern’s light Elsa lifts a large map that shows color-coded routes. Thoughts returning to the mysterious Isis, the queen frowns down at their position. Even The Bee’s Barb is displayed there, and the reality of their remote location is further realized. Sigland truly was far off. Even Mazpils was a two days travel. Could the cat have come from Vennesske? That wasn’t much further than Mazpils. 

Traveling merchants or nobles? Perhaps. They might have gotten caught up in the storm...

Elsa crosses the lounge, careful to avoid splayed limbs of snoring men, and sits at the counter atop which the cat was still imprisoned. The collar is a magnificent piece of work, truly the craft of a skilled (and expensive) smith. Isis stares at Elsa with those sun-like orbs, apprehension giving way to apparent fascination. The creature dips her head and mews, leaning closer to the queen. 

“I’ll take you out,” Elsa says, “If you promise not to make a mess of things.” 

No answer from Isis. 

“I just want a closer look at that fine collar you have,” she continues, “I know you can’t talk. You can’t even understand me.”

The cat is still looking at her, unmoving. 

“Okay.” Elsa taps the cage and a door is fashioned out of the slim bars. The door swings open, and quicker than Elsa can react the cat darts from captivity and streaks across the room. 

The queen winces, but there was no need. Not a sound is made as Isis alights on the chair on which Elsa had been sitting not a minute ago. Affersson, who’s dozed off, is unaware of the lithe creature. 

Elsa follows the cat. “Good girl.” At least she assumes it’s a girl. 

Isis climbs on the table and prowls about its rim, pausing only to sniff the half empty cup of coffee that had long since cooled. Unperturbed, the egyptian mau laps at the contents and mewls when Elsa sits at her chair once again. 

“Let me see…” the queen reaches for Isis’s collar and the bronze pendant dangling there. When the cat doesn’t move, Elsa asks, “Please?”

Isis concedes, drawing closer so Elsa can touch the pendant. She flips the face side to see if a mark of ownership is inscribed. No such luck. Even the collar itself is of high quality. Fine cord elaborately hand-woven. It’s a meticulous work. Elsa almost feels guilty that she can replicate this artist’s craft with a mere thought. 

The cat finally pulls away from the queen's scrutiny and bends to examine the documents splayed on the table. Elsa props an elbow and cups her chin, watching as Isis sniffs about the large trade map. 

“Cutie.” 

_ Tink. Splat.  _ Isis has knocked over an inkwell. 

Elsa gasps and draws back as the black ink spills over her fingers, “No!” She hisses, “Bad cat!” 

But Isis betrays no interest in Elsa’s scolding as she scampers across the table to leave inky paw prints over reports, summaries, and letters. Affersson snorts awake as Isis rebounds off his chest and stops again at the trade route map. Staring at Elsa, she raises one ink-soaked paw. 

The queen’s eyes narrow, “Don’t. You. Dare.” 

Unimpressed, Isis slaps her paw down on the map. 

Elsa rises, reaching out to snatch the cat, but she’s half a second too slow. Isis is gone in an instant, a trail of black paws left in her wake. Simmering with quiet outrage, the queen slowly lowers herself back into her chair. She feels Affersson’s eyes on her, and without looking at him she says, “Sergeant, shoot that cat next time you see it.” 

The sergeant checks his ink-stained shirt. “Yes, Your Majesty.”   
  
  


**o0o**   
  


 

The morning yields smell of eggs and frying beacon, but that’s not what wakes Princess Anna. Nor is the the shaft of morning light that beams from the room’s only window. Rather, it’s the singing. 

Anna has always been a deep sleeper and a slow waker. Elsa tells her she’s this way to make up for all the times she used to get up “when the sky’s awake”. Kristoff says it’s because she must be half troll. 

This morning’s waking ritual is no different. 

First comes the faint mumbling. A small corner of her mind recognizes the song, and her lips moves with the words. Then come the twitches, the mild shuffling, and the slight changes of breath. 

And then, after a few long minutes crawl by, the demon rises. A mass of fire that stands and coils in every direction imagined, surrounding the half-asleep, freckled face of the princess who smacks her lips and tilts her head to the distant song.

 

_ Six men stayed behind  _

_ to guard their gold; _

_ The other six in heathen lands  _

_ brandished steel cold.  _

 

_ They rode out of Frankish lands  _

_ With spoils in their saddles. _

_ Blow your horn, Olifant _

_ At Roncevaux.  _

 

The breakfasters downstairs begin drumming on their tables in time with the song. 

 

_ They fought at Roncevaux _

_ For two days, if not three; _

_ And the sun could not shine clear _

_ Through the stench of men’s blood _

 

_ They rode out of Frankish lands  _

_ With spoils in their saddles, _

_ Blow your horn, Olifant _

_ At Roncevaux  _

 

Tilda’s nyckeharpa joins the brogue of baritones, soliciting the cheers of her fans. An acapella begins as men attempt to sing notes far from their range. The musically-inclined men choose lower keys better suited for their voices, which introduces an odd and somehow charming clash to the song that further spurs it along.

 

_ Roland placed the horn on his bloodied mouth _

_ And blew with all his might! _

_ The earth shook and mountains resounded _

_ For three days and three nights! _

 

When it finishes, Anna is wholly awake and clapping, although nobody is there.  _ Rolandskvadet _ is an old favorite; her papa used to sing on their quiet evenings. Mama never quite approved, with its bloody imagery and violent words, but Anna has always loved it. Papa would laugh and say it’s history, and therefore educational. 

She sits for a minute longer, clutching at her heavy chest as she lapses back to warm, safe evenings before a crackling hearth, where Elsa would play with snowflakes and their father’s tenor would lull them to long yawns and happy, sleepy smiles. It doesn’t last long; somebody shifts in the bed next to her, which jolts Anna from her bittersweet reveries. 

Elsa is in the bed with her! There mustn’t have been enough rooms available for them to have separate accommodations. How had she not noticed? The queen is still fast asleep, face perfectly lax and contented. Initial shock melts to gentle joy, and Anna smiles to herself and down at the picture of peace that is her beloved sister. 

_ We’ve come a long way.  _

Belly growls for food. Time for breakfast and, hopefully, more music. But first, she must change into something appropriate, and attempt to tame this feral mane. 

Downstairs, breakfast is enjoyed by the few who’s woken. Half a dozen men, a couple boys, servants, and that scullion, Tilda. Anna thought the girl seemed sullen and quiet before, but now she looks truly dejected. Is she sitting in the same spot as she was last night? 

“Hi,” Anna stops beside the girl with a welcoming grin, “Are you okay?” 

Tilda rubs a sunken eye and nods. But when she sees that it’s the princess who addresses her, the scullion abruptly stands. “My Lady,” she gasps, bowing at the waist, “Forgive me, I-,” 

“Pfffffft,” Anna waves her off and sits down beside the girl, “Puh-lease. I left the palace  _ to  _ escape all that. Anna.” She shoves out her hand in greeting, and when Tilda doesn’t take it, the princess wiggles her fingers, “... wwwwhich is my name.” If that isn’t already clear. 

Tilda looks from the smiling and ruddy face before her to the proffered hand, then takes it. The smile is weak and tired, but there, and Anna is satisfied. 

“Eat breakfast with me,” Anna insists, and against Tilda's denials and nervous laughs, she is dragged to the occupied counter. 

Benson the cook can be seen working his magic in the kitchen. A gravelly bass reaches them.

 

_ Yes, the eggs are good but the beer is be’er  _

_ And beacon smells like heaven's te’er _

 

_ But guests should know eggs have mothers  _

_ And diners might squeal like pigs under butcher _

 

A deep breath.

 

_ Oooooooooooh! _

 

_ The eggs are migh’y good!  _

_ The eggs are migh’y good!  _

 

_ Jus’ wait till we tell their mothers! _

 

Anna laughs, unsure whether to be horrified or amused. “That’s awful!” 

There's a grunt, and Benson’s mountainous mass stoops to peer through the door and at the princess. No attempt to bow or any other pleasantries are offered, and Anna likes it. 

“Scrambled?” He asks, “Scrambled cost extra. Wa’er,” he points at something beyond view, “Wa’er free. Ale not.” 

“Who drinks at the crack of dawn?” Anna is bemused. 

Benson blinks, uncomprehending. “Any… one who… thirsty.” 

Everybody at the counter laughs. Benson still doesn’t understand, so he returns to what he does best. Soon, two more plates are bobbing on their journey to Anna and Tilda. 

Anna leans over the bar to gain a better view. “Olaf?”

Indeed, the snowman presents the both of them with breakfast. He has a napkin tied around his waist like a makeshift apron. “Goooood morning, ladies. Today we have eggs, scrambled, with grape tomatoes and toast with jelly.” 

“So,” there are no forks, so Anna scoops up some eggs with the toast and crunches, “you thinking ophh taking a jawb as a wait?” 

“I can’t understand you with your mouth full. Oh!” His eyes bulge with glee when Isis practically  _ saunters  _ down the counter, pausing occasionally to sniff at the contents of a cup or plate. Her subjects yield offerings of food, for she is the benevolent goddess come to bless them in all their endeavors. 

Or so Isis believes, it seems. 

“Helloooo,” Olaf speaks slowly with exaggerated enunciation, “I am Olaf and I like warm hugs!” 

The cat stops to stare, as though only just noticing the miracle before her. Her amber eyes flick to the flurry above the snowman, to his carrot nose and wide, dark eyes. 

When no answer is returned, Olaf leans closer, “... and you are...?” 

“Mew.” 

“I don’t speak cat yet, but I will adapt.” Declares the ever optimistic Olaf. 

Breakfast is splendid. It’s so good, in fact, that Anna thinks about offering Benson a job at the palace. Not that they have bad cooks, but they’re just not quite Benson’s level. 

She was considering on, should Benson accept the job offer, how they’d manage to fit him through the door when there’s a sharp pain at her hand. “Ow! Hey!” Isis had nipped her knuckle, making insistent cat noises. 

“You can have my food, I don’t care. But nipping is rude!” Anna wags a finger under the cat’s nose. 

But Isis seems altogether disinterested in the princess’s eggs and toast. She hisses and snaps at Anna’s finger. “What’s gotten into you?!” 

“Cat’s spoiled, milady,” a guard calls, “I’d leave it be.” 

“If my dog treated me like that, I’d put the beast down.” Another murmurs. 

An aghast Anna whips her head about. “Who said that?” 

Before the speaker is revealed, Isis pounces on her shoulders. Anna yelps and would have fallen over if Tilda had not righted her. The cat drops to the floor on nimble legs and darts across the room, whose occupants give a wide berth. 

But a vexed Anna follows, her face growing red. “Now listen here you dreadful beast! Everybody knows that it’s your duty and calling to be a furry little jerk, but who let you in, huh? Who gave you food?” 

A young guard raises his hand, “I let it in.” This gains him glares from his comrades, much to his embarrassment. 

“He let you in!” Anna points, still glaring lightning at the cat, who now sits upon a table overflowing with parchments, “Start by thanking him!” 

How the cat would do that is beyond anybody, but nobody seems privy to say so. They leave the eccentric princess be, returning to their idle chat and warm food. 

Isis watches her with those unsettling bright eyes. Her gaze holds silent intensity, tail flicking with impatience. What is she doing? Is she waiting for her? Anna’s scowl morphs to a puzzled frown as she reaches the table. The parchments there are covered entirely with splattering paw prints. 

“Elsa’s work?” She gasps, “You ruined Elsa’s  _ work _ ?” 

Anna doesn’t have much experience with cats, which is why she thinks scolding one might get somewhere. If this creature isn’t a stray, then it was thrown out by its owner! The princess reaches out to grab the cat, but stops short. 

Paw prints stain the queen’s work all over, but the spread map has but one. Not only that, but that single print covers their very location. Well, approximately. It half covers the illustration of a forest on the roadside, right next to The Bee’s Barb. The prints everywhere are all in close proximity by comparison. So why is it that only one paw smudges the map, on a place so relevant besides?

The cat makes a gentle sound, prodding the same spot. 

_ Is she… there’s no way.  _ Anna looks from the cat, then back to the map and the ink paw.  _ There’s absolutely no way…  _

“You,” the princess tugs on her braids, “You’re communicating.”

Anna has beared witness to many strange and fantastic things. Her sister wields winter, Olaf is an animation of snow and sticks, her Kristoff was raised by trolls who tap into forces beyond her comprehension. Yes, she does believe magic exists. How could she not, with what she has been through?

There is much she does not know. There is much more she’ll never understand, and in the years to come, she’ll never quite aptly describe what folllows. 

She stares into the cat’s eyes, and somehow, some _ way,  _ a voice without language or tone finds her mind. It’s not loud or obtrusive. In fact, she can hardly hear it, like someone is calling from across a long tunnel. 

_ Help me. I’m so afraid. Help me, please.  _

Anna is trembling now, her face inches from the cat’s, whose eyes burn brighter like the heart of a star. 

_ Is anyone there? I’m trapped.  _

Lips tremble. Emotions that are not her own spill into Anna. Fear, doubt, pain. Fear, doubt, pain.  _ Fear, doubt, pain.  _

“Isis,” Anna’s breath quivers, “Isis, I don’t understand.” 

Just as she says this, an image comes to her. A well, slouched in the center of a clearing. Moss clings to it, and it’s riddled by scorch marks, as though Thor himself had cast his fury down upon it. 

A forest. A well. 

_ Help me. It hurts. Someone, please. _

 

A refreshed Sergeant Affersson has just sit down for breakfast, greeted by claps on the back from his subordinates and (when off-duty), good friends. Even before food and coffee he is planning the trip ahead, and the route the queen had chosen last night. 

Just as he digs a wood spoon into his oatmeal, the door opens and slams shut. He turns to find nothing but the rustling of parchment and that Tilda girl standing at the window. 

“Who was that, girl?” The sergeant calls to her.

Tilda only glances at him as she makes for the door. There’s a peculiar anger in her eyes as her fingers curl about the knob. “Nobody, mister. Enjoy your breakfast.” And then she’s off. 

Affersson throws an arm over the backrest of his chair and watches her go with steady, hard eyes. Wasn’t the princess just here a second ago?

“Everything good, sir?” Emil asks him, one of the youngest in his unit. 

“I’m not sure, kid.” Affersson takes a sip of his coffee and stands. He wishes it was whiskey. His wife would be glad it isn’t. “If I’m not back in thirty, alert the queen.” 

“Yes sir.” 

And so he too leaves The Bee’s Barb. As the door closes behind him, Emil glimpses a flintlock pistol tucked in the back of his sergeant’s trousers.  

  
  


**o0o**

  
  


She’s not certain of what’s come over her. Anna is chasing Isis, and her feet moves almost of their own volition. But that voices is still with her, spurring her along with an urgency she feels, yet doesn’t understand. 

She breaches the woods. Trees whip by as she pursues Isis, who dashes with grace under precarious roots and rocks of the narrow path. “Wait, wait!” Anna waves her arms as the cat bounds out of view. 

She stops to rest against a tree, panting and looking up at the swaying branches. Sunlight peaks around them at her, and the leaves fall around her in orange and yellow swirls. 

“Mrrrow.” Isis is perched ahead, waiting for her. 

“Okay,” she takes a breath, “I’m coming. How’re cats so fast?” 

This time she follows the cat at a jog, careful of the woodland dangers. When she stops at another tree, it’s for a different reason. It’s face is a blackened crater, which Anna gingerly touches. Still warm. 

Looking about her she finds that there are more trees dotted with scorch marks. Anna lifts her skirts as she steps over a protruding, gnarled root. “What happened here?” It’s a question that isn’t answered. Still, it unnerves her. 

Minutes later, she finds the well. 

It’s a sad, squat, crooked thing, neglected by people but not time. The pulley system lays in a heap on the hillside, blown aside by the wind. Or perhaps it’s been there for years. Anna orbits the well, looking about. “Hello? Anybody here?” 

She stops to listen. Nothing. Isis sits on the well’s lip, watching Anna intently. The princess calls again for who she heard in her mind, and again there’s no answer. Leaning against the well’s side, she gestures dubiously at the unblinking cat.

“Well? What’s going on? Was that you I heard?” 

Isis ignores her, instead bending over the well’s mouth in search for something out of sight. 

“What is it?” Anna asks the cat as she too cranes her neck to stare down at the shadowy bottom of the well. It doesn’t go down too far, roughly twelve or fifteen feet. The diggers might have gotten lucky and struck water earlier than most. Or it was a failed well. 

Something shifts, followed by a groan.

Anna pushes away from the well, crying in astonishment and shoving free a handful of pebbles.

_ Clatter, clatter.  _ “ _ Ow!”  _ A male voice grunts, “that's my  _ head _ !” 

“Sorry!” Anna understands enough that he was hurt, “Sorry. You're…oh Holy Mother, you’re in the well!?” 

A length of silence. Then, “... What?” 

Oh, English. He's speaking English. A traveller? Anna taps her temples and squeezes her eyes shut as she approaches the well, searching for the right words. She discarded much of her tutorship growing up, choosing instead to roam and play by herself in the palace. As royalty and possible heir to the crown, it was required of her to learn at least the five romances. Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese, and English, as Arendelle is such a pivotal center of trade and one of the only kingdoms steadily producing ice. Anna failed her classes miserably at first, but was unbothered by her failures and irritated by the vast burden weighing on her. So her father came to her late one lonely evening. Not to yell or even lecture. King Agnar sat at the edge of teenage Anna’s soft bed and told her how he was just like her at fifteen. 

_ “Just like me, Papa?” Anna giggled in disbelief.  _

_ “Welll,” Agnar chuckled and scratched his head, “Well maybe not just like you. I didn’t have your… freckles,” he poked her face, soliciting more giggles, “Or your pigtails.”  _

_ “They’re not pigtails.”  _

_ “Oh really?” Agnar feigned surprise, “They were just a couple days ago.”  _

_ “Nooo. That was years ago, Papa.” _

_ “It was, wasn’t it?” The king’s smile grew somehow distant, “Doesn’t feel like it.”  _

_ “Not to me.”  _

_ They sat in silence for a while. Agnar seemed to be seeking the right words, but they died in his mouth and he settled for the quiet and the ticking of the clock on the wall. His gentle eyes went to the clock thoughtfully.  _

_ “Do you know where this clock came from?”  _

_ Anna stared at it. “Uhhh… a tree?”  _

_ “Very true,” the king barked a laugh, “Very true, Anna. A tree from France.”  _

_ Anna inched further under the covers, sensing where the talk is going.  _

_ “Arendelle is…” he mulled for the right words. It came easy to him, as the honey-tongued king he was. “A conduit of trade. Many people from many kingdoms come here all year ‘round. Do you know how many languages that is?”  _

_ Anna mimed him as he answered his own question. “Twenty three languages. And that’s just Europe. Do you know how much I know?”  _

_ Anna pretended to think about it. “Twentyy… three?”  _

_ Agnar laughed again. He did that a lot. “Oh I wish. Well I know Latin, French, Spanish, Italian, English, German, Danish, a little Romanian, a little Portuguese… even some Irish.”  _

_ Big eyes grew bigger with every tongue listed. Soon, they’re twin teal moons, staring at her father as though he were a genius. Agnar noticed and waved a hand. “Pfff, d’you know how much Mama knows?”  _

_ “Twice as many,” it was a guess but Anna didn’t doubt it.  _

_ “That’s right.”  _

_ “Really? Wow.”  _

_ The king grinned down at his beautiful daughter as he lowered himself to splay horizontally on her bed, legs spilling over one side and his head hanging over the other. “Yes ma’am. I may have an official advisor, but your Mama always helps me with last decisions. She’s smarter than I am.”  _

_ “That’s shouldn’t be too hard.” She saw the pillow coming and ducked under her covers to avoid it, giggling. But he was laughing with her, and she felt warm and happy.  _

_ Warm and happy and safe.  _

_ She will always be safe with him, she realized. Her handsome, strong, smart Papa. Unbeatable. He could conquer a storm if he wanted to. There’s no doubt in her. Not even a little.  _

_ “Modus vivendi,” She said, still under her heavy blankets.  _

_ “Huh?”  _

_ “I thought you knew Latin, Papa.”  _

_ “Way of living. But what has that got to do with-,”  _

_ “I read it in a book.” Anna sat up and snatched a pillow to hug, “Two heroes couldn’t get along well enough to defeat the evil sorcerer. They tried again and again but their ambitions always got in the way.”  _

_ “Yeah?  _

_ “They both wanted the riches the sorcerer hoarded like a greedy dragon. But both wanted it  _ all. _ ”  _

_ “Wow. How much was it?” He sounded tired. Agnar was too comfortable. He grunted when she poked his side with her toe.  _

_ “Mountains of precious stones. Rubies and sapphires. One of them wanted to impress a woman. Another wanted to have a castle, with servants and guards and his very own tower. _

_ “So anyways, on their seventh failure where both of them almost died a terrible death, they agreed on a modus vivendi. A compromise. One of them would get all the blue stones, and another would get all the red. So when they faced the sorcerer for the eighth time, they didn’t get in each other’s way or try to stop each other when they got close to the riches.  _

_ “They defeated the sorcerer together. All because... “ Anna rose her hands, “Modus vivendi.”  _

_ “Huh.” the king mused, “You coulda just said compromise.”  _

_ “Yeah but I like the story and never get to talk about it.”  _

_ “So,” Agnar rolled over to peek at his daughter through one cracked eyelid, “What’s this compromise?”  _

_ “I learn one language at a time,” Anna said, “Papa, learning three at once is too much for me.”  _

_ The king continued to look at her, before finally closing his eyes. “I’d have to bring it up with Mama.”  _

_ “That’s okay.”  _

_ “And your tutors.”  _

_ “You’re the king, they’ll do whatever you want.”  _

_ More silence. His gears were turning. “I need a promise. The cross-your-heart-hope-to-lose-all-your-privileges kind.” He took a breath and groaned as he sat up. Anna didn’t know why; he wasn’t  _ that _ old. “Promise me, if we do this, that you’ll learn.”  _

_ Anna thought about it, about her ability. She never made a promise lightly, and she liked her privileges. “Okay,” she made an X over her heart, “Cross my heart, hope to lose all my privileges.”  _

_ “Which won’t happen because...?” _

_ Anna grinned at her father. “Because I’ll learn. We’re royalty. I have to be smart.”  _

_ “You’re already smart, strawberry,” he pecked her brow and rose from the bed. She bounced slightly as the bed was relieved of the king’s weight, “It’s what you do with your smarts that matters.”  _

_ “Goodnight Papa.”  _

_ “Mmh,” long strides took him to the door, but as his hand found the knob, one more question sprung to his daughter’s mind.  _

_ “Papa?”  _

_ “Mmh?” He glanced over his shoulder.  _

_ “How many...” she swallowed, an uncharacteristic anxiety hammering at her chest, “H-How many languages does Elsa know?”  _

_ He stood very still, then, spine gone just stiff enough for Anna to notice. Looking away from her, he stared for a moment at the door, then lowered his head with a quiet sigh, reluctant to speak at all of his elder daughter. “Five.”  _

_ Without another word of Anna’s ghost sister, he leaves the room, the door closing harder than he probably intended.  _

The next day, Anna was approached with what she wanted to learn first. She chose English. She did better than French and even German. But to truly be fluent was to constantly speak the language, and there are never any Englishmen in Arendelle that Anna knows of. Until now, that is. 

She can hear him moving again. There’s a sharp breath and agonized chuckles. 

“I don’t speak English unwell,” Nope, “ _ well.  _ But I hope you…understand me.” 

Labored breathing. God, he sounded hurt real bad.  _ Fear, doubt, pain.   _

“I know you… are afraid. And confuse. And that you pain.” Her accent is thick and choppy, but the man seems to be listening, “But I… am here to help.” 

No immediate answer. After a moment there are ragged coughs. “You sound fine.” 

“Thank you.” Anna beams with unreasonable pride, and pictures her Papa grinning down at her.  “My name is Anna. What is… you are… your name?” 

More coughs. Isis mewls with concern and rounds the circumference of the well, searching for a means of descension. 

Finally, the man responds, his voice grating. “Hi Anna. Thank you, but I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what? You are- your name?” She can see a pair of boots shift into the narrow spot of sunlight, but his face and body is still in the shadows. 

Wan chuckles, as though he himself can’t quite believe it. “Miss, the only thing I know about myself is that I am a wizard.”    
  


**o0o**

 

**Magics Index**

  
  


**Familiar’s Link** \- A familiar and the mystic with which it’s paired share a mysterious and strange bond. Sometimes, should the need arise, the familiar can tap into the mystic’s mind, even project the mystic’s emotions and thoughts to somebody else entirely. 


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